Boo!

Tomorrow is Halloween. These days, at our church, that means Trunk 'n Treat. We're obviously not as uptight as some think we are, we Presbyterians. I have to work at the church tomorrow -- then we have this Evangelism event from 4pm - 6pm -- then I have choir practice from 6:30 - 8:00 pm. That's a 10 hour day for me, if I do it all. Too much church, even for this church lady.

But I couldn't turn down my formidable fellow church lady friends. LOL. Don't misunderstand. They're little hotties (at least in costume), but they pour-on the peer pressure real good (how's THAT for bad grammar?). So somehow I have found myself committing to sponsoring a trunk and putting together not one, but parts of THREE costumes: my own chainsaw surgeon, a witch or gypsy of some sort, and a punk rocker. Yeh, the Clerk of Session asked me to bring a hot pink wig for him to wear. This is truly very amusing. David put that wig on once and we got some funny pictures. That was a long time ago.

Think about it. Evangelism for a church: All Hallows' Eve. I think it is probably very appropriate for we Gaelic (Scottish) Presbyterians as it is believed to have come from ancient tradition to mark the end of summer and the beginning of winter. According to sources via "Wikipedia," Samhain (summer's end) was seen as a time when the 'door' to the Otherworld opened enough for the souls of the dead, and other beings such as fairies, to come into our world. The souls of the dead were said to revisit their homes on Samhain. Feasts were had, at which the souls of dead kin were beckoned to attend and a place set at the table for them. Lewis Spence described it as a "feast of the dead" and "festival of the fairies". However, harmful spirits and fairies were also thought to be active at Samhain. People took steps to allay or ward-off these harmful spirits/fairies, which is thought to have influenced today's Halloween customs. Creepy. Halloween is also thought to have been influenced by the Christian holy days of All Saints' Day (also known as All Hallows, Hallowmas or Hallowtide) on November 1 and All Souls' Day on November 2.

History goes on and on to explain how the customs of our current-day Halloween practices came to America -- mostly due to the Scottish influence. To me, that's really funny and somewhat unseemly, as a life-long Scottish Presbyterian. We're typically thought to be so proper and all ... but here we are, Trunk 'n Treating. Who knew that my ancestors were such renegades!? I like it!

All Hallows' Eve evolves overnight into All Saints' Day -- to which I relate deeply, for many of my loved ones are dead. "Saints" refers to all Christians and therefore, on All Saints' Day, the Church Universal, as well as the deceased members of a local congregation, are honoured and remembered. It sometimes seems a bit awkward -- a bit queer -- but when certain pastors find comfort in going all-out, we openly remember those who have died. It can be a very beautiful kind of worship. "Jesus, remember me, when I come into your Kingdom," is a phrase we often sing in remembrance of those saints who have died. It's beautiful. But why the ghouls and goblins?

The Mexican holiday, "Day of the Dead," (Día de los Muertos) is celebrated throughout Mexico and around the world in other cultures. The holiday focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and family members who have died. It is a national holiday in Mexico. The celebration takes place on November 1, in connection with the Catholic holidays of All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day (November 2). Traditions connected with the holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed and visiting graves with these as gifts. They also leave possessions of the deceased. The Mexicans aren't very squeamish about this celebration -- we Americans find it a bit coarse -- a bit over the top, though we're actually doing just the same thing under the guise of a children's fun and harmless little celebration of Trick-or-Treating. We've gotta scare away those harmful spirits! Hmmmm. Americans -- so neat and tidy.

So how do I feel about all of this? Well, I certainly do think that those believers who have died are Saints. I believe that all believers are Saints. In the Reformed tradition, people are considered to be saints when they get baptized and dedicate their lives to Jesus. Simple as that. Because of that, sometimes we don't feel comfortable honoring the dead as "extra" saintly. But I think it's okay to do so. I sure do want to remember my parents, my husband, and many others as saints: Hebrews 12:1 -- Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us. I love this. Those who have believed and died before us surround us and undergird us in our living.

Mostly I just think Halloween is fun -- and liberating. We love being scared -- being creeped-out, or else we wouldn't continue these practices -- haunted houses, horror movies and Halloween. One day a year we let our protective guards down and just get down and dirty with death: skeletons and graveyards and ghosts -- all those things that we're generally very uncomfortable contemplating. Then, on All Saints' Day, we go back to our norms -- our funeral home formalities and fear of death. We really need to do this better.

Natural Disasters

Here I am, again, battening-down the hatches on my own. I can't tell you how many natural disasters David missed. The first major event was when my son was days old. David was on the west coast and we were experiencing a major ice storm and extreme cold – below zero temperatures. We lost power, so lost heat – and the fireplace wasn’t cutting it. And there was this precious little newborn. I can still recall what he was wearing the moment I made the decision to call a local hotel that somehow had power and got a room – then very carefully drove the few miles to warmth and light and safety. He was wearing a little white sleeper with light blue trim. But that was not going to be able to keep him warm enough.

A few years ago, oddly severe winter weather hit central Virginia again. We got something like 6 feet of snow in just a few weeks. One storm dumped over 3 feet in a day. (David was in Tucson, I think -- ARIZONA). It’s sort of fun for an evening – or even a day – to pioneer. I like to use my hog-scraper candle stick (a la Williamsburg) with the hurricane glass and my oil lamp. I always have a full pantry, so food isn’t an issue. I keep numerous gallons of water stored at all times. And it’s a great opportunity to play cards or a board game when movies aren’t available. But it gets old when you can’t get a shower and when you start to get cold. And then there’s the work. Yeh, it was me and the kids shoveling the snow off of the deck to keep it from collapsing – and maintaining a trail from the doggie door to the closest patch of buried grass (because the dog couldn’t walk in the deep stuff AT ALL). We managed to keep the front walk clear and continuously shoveled tire tracks down the driveway. It was exhausting.

Of course this summer’s Derecho was equally as challenging. Instead of freezing temps, we had over 100 degree temps with no power and no water. There are blessings in and about these storms. Togetherness is imposed on you. Neighbors come out of their homes and help each other . You recognize clearly how convenient life is in a first-world nation and how amazing the infrastructure in the United States really is and the inconvenience teaches you how to manage without. The chirren' have learned how to fend during these times – how to be prepared and how to address the problem of no stove, no running water and no climate control – how to not give in without a fight (not unless freezing to death looms fearfully). Ha.

My kids have learned a lot from different kinds of natural disasters, as have I. I think that losing your dad is a disaster – and his cancer and death were somewhat “natural.” Disaster [dih-‘zas-ter] noun: a calamitous event, especially one occurring suddenly and causing great loss of life, damage, or hardship, as a flood, airplane crash, or business failure. Yeh, hardship. Heartbreak. Our family has known loss from a plane crash, too. It's true.  Uncanny, isn’t it? But I was writing about learning therefrom … so what would that be?

How to not panic in the face of really frightening medical information; how to get a full-sized man, who has fallen, back into a chair; how to navigate through any given hospital; how to evade hospital rules and regulations; how to stop yourself from crying … or screaming; how to socialize with other hospital patients; how to redirect your beloved’s anger, frustration, sorrow, or pain; how to know when to just freaking leave the room; how to give an injection; how to graciously receive gifts of food, flowers and other such stuff; how to behave in a funeral home; how to maintain your composure at a Memorial Service and at a graveside service; how to keep living when you want to lay down and not; how to get through Christmas when there’s a loomingly empty chair around the tree; how to wear your father’s shoes – or his shirt – and only feel comforted; how to keep on keeping on when you shouldn’t have to; how to let yourself cry – even sob; how to pray again – with thanksgiving; how to reach out to others in empathy – and love; how to begin to see beyond your own pain; how to worship with real joy; how to remember with gentleness instead of angst; how to continue living …

My kids had already been to no fewer than three funerals by the time they were maybe 3. I went to my grandfather’s funeral when I was about 6 months pregnant with my daughter. They were born lacking one of two grandmothers … then lost a grandfather. They lost two great-grandmothers. That’s three funerals … then a beloved uncle. Awful. Then their father. I have adult friends older than I am with two parents living! I have no grandparents. I have no parents. They have one parent and two grandparents. They are 20 and 18. Natural disaster. Damn.

So the wind blows … and the storms come and go. I love wind and I love rain and I love severe weather – but I hate natural disasters. I hate unnatural disasters, too. There have been too many of those -- plane crashes … heart surgeries gone bad …. car accidents. Yep. Unbelievable. Lessons learned?

Life is painful. Life is full of loss and sorrow – but life is also full of joy and beauty and an amazing amount of love. That’s what keeps us going. That’s the biggest lesson of all: Love is real. Love is important. Love is sustaining. Without love – without people TO love and to love YOU, life is meaningless. Sometimes that’s all you have left, but it’s worthy of your time, attention and energy. Love.

Just look at the big disasters that have hit humanity. What stands out? The way people reach out to other people with loving care. Victims of earthquake or tsunami – flooding or fire. People LOVE other people, regardless of their color, creed or culture. Natural disasters are eerily edifying. God is there – with multi-colored faces. Some dear friends of mine just returned from loving-on some Haitians. The time, attention and money showered upon them was not showered on our American neighbors, as some believe they should have been -- but these suffering beloved are also children of God! Natural disasters have no prejudice. They don’t segregate. Instead, they miraculously congeal humanity.

Neighbors have checked-in with me and I've checked-in with my neighbors. We're all looking out for each other -- loving each other. Wow -- blessing in the throes of disaster. It rather makes life worth living, don't you think?

I want to see your face.

My daughter wrote those words to me today. It made me feel all warm inside -- very beloved. And then very blue because we could not get Skype to work. It's been a while since I've seen her face. The moment I collect her at International Arrivals -- seeing her face to face -- I'll need a veil like Moses did after seeing God, I'll be shining so brightly!

Why is seeing each other so important? We talk on the phone and can hear inflection and tone -- listen to shared sentiments and information. We can even do a great deal of that via texting these days. But, if the eyes are truly a window to the soul, I guess that answers the question. Of course, I would add the dimension of touch to complete the package.

Have you ever spent so much time with someone that you start to pick up on their mannerisms? People have told me over and over again that my daughter doesn't look a thing like me! Ouch. But one day, long ago on a middle school field trip, a really understanding dad assured me that we did "look" alike -- that we had the same mannerisms and facial expressions. His comment still makes me smile. He understood. I can't remember who he was, let alone what his kid looked like -- but I wonder if he suffered the same continuous commentary so said this to me out of empathy. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe my daughter and I really do have similarities ... but I think she's a pretty unique package. Anyway, we tend to assimilate the movements, gestures and forms of speech of those we love and with whom we spend a lot of time. We assume these mannerisms through face-to-face contact with others.

Moses saw God. Of course who knows what he actually saw -- yeh, a bush on fire but that didn't burn-up -- a pillar of smoke, guiding the way to the Promised Land. But what about God's actual face? According to Exodus 33:20-23, "Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and live. And the LORD said, Behold, there is a place by me, and thou shalt stand upon a rock: And it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a clift of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by: And I will take away mine hand, and thou shalt see my back parts: but my face shall not be seen." This kind of makes me giggle ... so what do those back parts look like? What did Moses see in the tent when he, alone, approached the Holy of Holies such that he had to shield his burning face from his people? A couple of stone tablets? a golden ark? or God's actual essence -- his likeness, in which we are all created?

I think we see God's face anytime we know love or experience joy through people in our lives. Look in the mirror. What do you see? Do you see God's face?

This is not a trick question. What is the "image of God?" im-age: [im-ij] noun, 1. a physical likeness or representation of a person, animal, or thing, photographed, painted, sculptured, or otherwise made visible. 2. an optical counterpart or appearance of an object, as is produced by reflection from a mirror, refraction by a lens, or the passage of luminous rays through a small aperture and their reception on a surface. 3. a mental representation; idea; conception. So we either look pretty much like God looks (and we'll find out one day -- when we reach that new Heaven and new Earth) OR we mirror God -- or we represent the idea of God. I think it's probably mostly the latter -- but would never limit God in any way, shape, form or face. There's another promise, too -- God will wipe every tear from our eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things will have passed away. Heaven. God's face. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

So who should we really strive to emulate, anyway? Who the heck is God? If you really want to know, ask your family and friends who worship God. Listen to what they have to say. But for simplicity, I did a websearch and found a rather overall definition on Wikipedia: God usually refers to the single deity in monotheism or the monist deity in pantheism. God is often conceived of as the supernatural creator and overseer of humans and the universe. Theologians have ascribed a variety of attributes to the many different conceptions of God. The most common among these include omniscience (infinite knowledge), omnipotence (unlimited power), omnipresence (present everywhere), omnibenevolence (perfect goodness), divine simplicity, and eternal and necessary existence. No too shabby. Perfect goodness. Wow.

So if I am, indeed, made in God's image, how can I mirror Him tonight? There are two basic imperatives: 1) Love; and 2) Love.

I believe that Jesus is God -- made man -- with us. Jesus said, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it, You shall love your neighbor as yourself."   ~Matthew 22:35

He never said it was going to be easy.

When people die, the only face-time you have left is through photographs or home movies. Thankfully, we now have sound on our videos; I don't know that I have any recording of my mother's voice anywhere anymore. I can look at pictures and close my eyes and imagine what they looked like -- what their voices sounded like -- what their touch felt like -- but I'll never be face-to-face again with these beloved as long as I remain on this earth. David's face changed a lot the last couple years of his life. One of his last surgeries changed the shape of his face. A medication caused his face to swell. Tying-on his trademark bandana became too painful, so he simply looked a little different in a hat or bare-headed on a day-to-day basis. And sometime in the last few weeks of his life, his smile changed -- becoming somewhat crooked, but still endearing. I have some photos of him from those last days with us. He really doesn't resemble himself much, but those are the last images of his face and his spirit. I cherish the pictures -- for myself. They're really not for anybody else.

I keep thinking about my daughter and how she shines so brightly -- and she does so without seeing my face -- she does it all on her own. Some people are just beacons for the rest of us -- showing us the way. I think she's one of those. Like a lighthouse on a rocky shore, the beam of a good flashlight on a dark trail, our wonderful, warm Sun -- casting brilliance where there is darkness. My daughter. All she has to do is smile -- or laugh -- and you're just overtaken by her shininess. This person wanted to see MY face today. I believe that she exhibits God's Kingdom right here on earth. That is a high calling. And what if she has emulated even just a little of my spirit -- of my heart? Could that mean that I sometimes have a little shine myself? Might I mirror God, too? assumed a few of His ways? I hope so. I have been spending a lot of time with Him ...

... It shines because the fireflies are sleeping
And it shines so the stars can find their place
It shines so we know there is a reason
And it shines so i can see your face.       ~ from It Shines, David M. Bailey

( http://www.davidmbailey.com/audio/DAVID_M_BAILEY-It_Shines_hifi.m3u )

Take care, now ...

Some days I just want someone to take care of me. Maybe I need a sugar daddy ... but not in a dirty way, of course. I could trade yard work for good conversation -- or a dinner and a movie for a home-cooked meal. You know ... wholesome stuff. Yeh, no. It's bigger than that. It's a fantasy of not having to be wholly responsible for myself, my house, my property, my car, and my children. It's fantasy because it is simply not my reality. I'm it. I have to get myself everywhere I go, so I'm always the designated driver. I have to go to parties and dinners and events alone so I mostly just don't go. I have to deal with all the house stuff -- like the roof and the mowing and a whole lot more. Thankfully I have a relationship with the service manager where I get my car work done -- he takes really good care of me (with no expectation other than my gratitude and credit card payment, of course). And I am on my own with my kids -- meeting their every need all by myself. Well, those that they aren't yet meeting for themselves, of course. There's nobody to pick up my slack. It can get overwhelming, you know? I know a lot of people are in the same boat.

David used to bring me a cup of coffee in bed each and every morning that he was home. He was quite proud of that. He wondered how many husbands were so incredibly thoughtful as he was ... (when he was trying to score points.) That certainly was a beautiful way to take care of me, though. It's not an oil change, but it's relationship-based and we women love that! He wrote love songs for me, too. I think that's probably a very unique kind of thing. And he did trim the trees! without me having to ask. He noticed that they needed to be trimmed and he did it. That was key. Right now I have a tree that's scraping against the gutter and the window -- it's just getting in the way all-around. He would have handled that -- and trimmed those bushes in front of that window, too. I did it last year, somehow! I don't know where I put the trimmers, though. That's very unlike me. A real mystery. I guess I need to hire someone now ... or I could wait for the boy to come home at Thanksgiving. Hmmmmm.

The boy. The boy is good for lots of things. I never once told him that he was now the "man of the house." I don't know if anyone did ... I hope not. It would be one thing if he were 25 or something -- but he's 18. That's too great a burden. He's been burdened enough. When he was home, he was good for amazing hugs (touch) and mowing (on his own schedule). He even cooked sometimes. He learned easily to handle his own car maintenance once he learned what it was all about. That is huge! He's a good text-to-text grocery shopper, too -- a willing buyer (as long as those red-hot cheetos can be on the list). But he's over 300 miles away right now and quite wrapped-up in his own life, as he should be. Can that tree-trimming wait? Maybe ... but do I want him out working in the yard those few days he'll be home? or inside with us catching up?

Rent-a-husband!

Rent-a-Husband is an actual, franchised handyman chain of businesses. I think it's a very clever name and I love the concept. Unfortunately, they can't meet all of my needs, though. Okay, you clean gutters -- do you also brew coffee and deliver it to the bedroom at o'dark thirty? Doubt it! Though "Tall, Dark and Handy," you just can't meet every need! (And they shouldn't.) This is not an R-rated blog, but it feels like it's moving toward that, doesn't it?

But seriously ... as one dear friend has put it, "There's nothing like a man in the house." And she's right. This can be a son! A good dose of testosterone in one's proximity makes life more complete. Sadly, in my situation, it's a little bit more hard to come by without crossing certain boundaries. I definitely miss simple conversation with a man. I miss the male perspective on everything and anything. I miss the tenor of the male voice. I've already written about missing the body heat and the presence -- the touch. I miss male companionship. And I do understand that it's tricky. I believe that men and women really can't be friends -- especially if they're married. But sometimes I want to take that ascertainment back! I mean, I don't want to go to dinner and a movie with someone's husband, but I would entertain the idea of coffee with an unmarried man -- for the conversation -- the point of view -- the companionship. I love men.

When my father ultimately remarried, I remember thinking, "Well, she definitely can't replace my mother!" At the time, it made it easier to stomach. She was so much unlike my mother that there would never be a way my father would feel guilt over "replacing" her. He should have striven higher, though -- WAY higher. She was awful. To this day, there is still so much sorrow there in his daughters. He deserved to find a loving companion to live-out his days. Such an intelligent and wonderfully loving man ... yet he made a poor choice.

But, alas, I'm still wearing these rings ... and still feel married, though not quite as adamantly as I did even a month ago. This uncleaving business happens when you least expect it. 'People' say, "David would not have wanted you to be alone!" But you know what? I have NO idea what he would have wanted. He never even began to tell me. I don't think he'd ever thought about it. There will never, ever be another David. That's actually a comfort to me. I'll never hope or want to fill his shoes -- replace him. He can never be replaced. Knowing that actually makes it a little easier to consider having coffee with someone -- or maybe the daring undertaking of a dinner or a movie. Of course, I haven't been asked ... It's one thing to write about it or to think about it -- but I might run and hide if it ever happens. But maybe not ... if it felt safe and comfortable. If it felt like I was being taken care of. Still, I'm fiercely independent. Scary, even to me.

And there will come a time,
you'll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart,
but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see
what you find there,
With grace in your heart
and flowers in your hair.              from After the Storm, Mumford and Sons

Touch

I have always sympathized with those who have lived alone -- not found love -- not married. For I know what it means to have someone to live alongside of you. And I now know what it means to not have someone live alongside of you. Humans are made to live in some kind of community. Pish posh to those who believe that man requires more than one mate. Whatever ... but I truly believe we are not meant to live alone. And here I am ... alone. This was not my choice.

Sure, many exist -- even thrive -- living alone. But I really wonder how they do that. I'm doing okay for now, but even my son knows better. He knows that I need people in my life -- people in my home and that I am not meant to be alone and he doesn't want me to be. This is quite personal, in a way -- but on a very elementary level, not at all. Difficult topic? Some may think so. Some reading may relate painfully here. Some may have absolutely no idea what it means to be all alone. Some have dogs. I don't mean to be flip. Dogs are companions and prevent that aloneness that can creep in and dry you up. But the touch, the smell, the rawness of living beside another living, albeit flawed, human being has no rival. I don't allow my dog in my bed, either.

Ingrid Michaelson sings a song about lost love. It's probably about someone who left her, but I still relate. In reality, David did leave me ...

The sky looks pissed, the wind talks back.
My bones are shifting in my skin, and you my love are gone.

My room feels wrong, my bed won't fit,
I cannot seem to operate, and you my love are gone.

So glide away on soapy heels, and promise not to promise anymore.
And if you come around again, then I will take,
then I will take the chain from off the door.

I'll never say, I'll never love,
oh but I don't say alot of things and you my love are gone.

So glide away on soapy heels and promise not to promise anymore.
And if you come around again then I will take
the chain from off the door.

I really relate to that -- my home feeling wrong ... my bed not fitting. For 23 years I shared a home and a bed with one man who knew everything about me. He knew my past, he knew my faults, he knew my beauty, he knew my family, he knew my body, he knew my thoughts and my beliefs -- my heart and my fears.  So what now?  I still feel married, but I'm not old and I'm not done living. What do I do now?

I'm still raising my children and I'm busy and very invested in all of that. I don't feel like this all of the time, of course ... but some days I just feel really alone and it's awful. I want and need to be held -- to be touched. I don't mean sex -- I just mean intimacy of some sort. I remember when I was a young mother with my kids all over me all day long and I was touched-out. Sometimes I just needed everyone to back off and stop handling me. Yeh, not anymore. And my heart truly breaks for those who have not known the loving contact that I have known.  Don't pity me.  I've been very blessed with a lot of love and affection in my life -- but some days scratching the ears of my faithful pooch does not cut it.  Some nights I do miss my purring cat right there at my beating heart, flying fur and all. But mostly I miss a big, strong, breathing, living man in my bed.

I would be wholly remiss if I were not to mention that I believe that we are never truly alone -- that God is with us always. The Church understands the importance of touch -- and practices it through the right hand of fellowship, the kiss of Christian love, and the laying-on of hands.  In my church, when we ordain people -- recognizing that they are set-apart -- called -- for a purpose, for a ministry -- others who have been ordained before them touch them -- all together.  It's really very affecting.  When our new little church was chartered, we installed a bunch of elders who had already been ordained.  (I was one of those ...)  And we ordained someone, too.  It was a big, Presbyterian service -- with several congregations being represented -- so when all who had already been ordained as Elder or Deacon were invited to come forward for the laying-on of hands, the beloved was surrounded and lovingly touched as she was set-apart for ministry -- called by God to serve the Church. Of course not everyone could reach her, so we formed a chain, of sorts -- touching each other.   I'll tell you what -- if you're uncomfortable touching people, you get over it quickly through such a beautiful and loving act.  All that Christian love was radiating through each other to her.  God's love.  The love of Jesus.  Wow. 

And then my thoughts naturally move to those who have not known affection -- who have lived the majority of their lives alone and untouched. I'm so sorry. How truly tragic. Of course, that is my own, biased opinion -- knowing what I have known. Perhaps you scoff at my dependency on another's body heat, closeness and companionship -- consider it a weakness. Perhaps. Perhaps not ... But I do know that I have known great love -- I've lost it -- but have known it and would never trade that for a ho-hum existence. I'm really rambling now.

If you're not alone -- go touch the one you're with. Tenderly. Really touch them -- sense the warmth of their skin -- the beating of their heart -- their breath on your cheek -- the heat that causes you to kick off your covers -- even the snoring coming from the other side of the bed -- and know that you are not alone. That you are sharing a holy space with someone who knows everything about you, or, at least, is learning all of that. Be wholly grateful for their presence -- as sloppy or aggravating as it may be at times. You are not alone. And if you don't have that daily closeness with anyone and desire it, don't be afraid to seek it. There are many levels of intimacy which can be very beautiful -- pure. Cultivate those relationships -- even if it is simply friendship. Don't settle for being alone. Unless you really want to be.

My husband sort of glided away on soapy heels ... and that promise to have and to hold from this day forward, etc. etc. etc. is in my past. Do I say I'll never love again? Na ... but I don't say a lot of things. You, my love, are gone.

Bugs, Stink Trees and Terrorism

I co-exist with insects and don't even bat an eye anymore. No more flinching or gasping when a bug alights on me or my book or my dinner plate. It's just plain weird!

The ladybugs descended upon me today. There must be 30 of them swarming the ceiling right inside my back door -- the sunny side of the house. I thought we were going to get away with a slow ladybug year. Dang. I haven't even vacuumed-out the light fixtures from last fall yet! The stink bugs have been here for a while. One insists on batting itself all along the ceiling every evening that I sit here and write. It's incredibly annoying, yet after so much co-habitation, I can tune it out. I even had a wasp in my kitchen today and just said hello to it like it belonged here. (It's dead now. I can't ignore a wasp.) This is abnormal, but no DDT, please.

We need a good, hard freeze -- and a long, cold winter. The last few winters have been so sissy'ish that neither the bugs nor the weeds have been put in their places. There's something amiss with our earth.

We have another invader here in the Mid-Atlantic -- the stink tree, aka the "ghetto palm" -- from China. It grows everywhere and you can't kill it. It seems to be a host for the stink bugs. My neighbor diligently cut down a small forest of them between our properties last winter -- but there's a whole new grove a-growing -- about 6' in height already. They're taking over our National Forest! We imported the tree, imported the stink bugs and imported the lady bugs ... and the Kudzu, originally from Japan -- that blankets our forests and kills the the trees from lack of sunlight. How dumb. When will we learn!?

I recently learned about an issue with our wheat -- by "our," I mean the United States. We have a lot of mouths to feed -- so have genetically modified our crops to produce abundantly. We know about the possible negative effects of hormonally modifed corn and milk -- and now wheat. Something with the gluten or complex carbohydrates and the big American weight gain. This pertains to whole wheat, too -- so just when we think we're doing well with our whole grain diets, we could be getting fatter and fatter. I don't think organic wheat is excluded from this mess. There's possibly a link to diabetes, of course. This even means that American beer could be more fattening than imports! I wonder if this is all true.

My husband had brain cancer. Why? Sure, there are other cancers in his family -- mostly on his mother's side. An uncle died from Pancreatic Cancer. Another had bladder cancer. But why brain cancer? Was it caused by his cell phone? You know, I have to wonder ... his last tumor was right above his right ear -- right where he held his phone. For nearly 15 years, the cause of his brain cancer was contemplated, from time to time, here at the Bailey home. He wasn't a big Diet Coke drinker -- so Aspartame probably wasn't the culprit. We didn't live under massive power lines. We did live near a proving ground for many years -- Quantico. What were they doing over there? Was it just plain old genetics? or are we humans really messing things up? What's in our water? What's in the air we breathe? What the heck are we eating!?

We were barely making ends meet as young parents so we couldn't afford an organic diet. (Organic farms can't feed America anyway ... so the lucky ones are weeded-out economically -- pun intended. That stinks, too.) Of course I wanted my babies to have the best, safest foods -- but I also wanted them to be clothed and warm -- and have healthcare. We couldn't have it all! So we ate "traditionally," not organically. Thankfully, it appears that our kids are healthy -- neither having enormous feet or out-of-balance hormones. What's a mom to do? Well, I limited certain substances from their diets. No hotdogs or cured meats were eaten in MY house. Sure, the odd hotdog when we were out and about was allowed -- like a ballgame or something -- and a lovely Easter ham -- but otherwise, nope. Sodium Nitrites are KNOWN to be a cause of childhood Leukemia. If they cause Leukemia, doesn't it make sense that they can cause other cancers? What if my kids have the cancer gene??? I'm not going to knowingly feed it!

David forbid me to allow "fear" to be a tactic in our living. I really respect and appreciate that. Following 911, I was fearful. We lived just south of DC -- a prime escape route should a larger attack have been levied on Washington -- and close enough to be directly affected by a terrorist act on the nation's capital. I kept an emergency food cache in the back of my soccer-mom van for months until he insisted that I dismantle it and stop living fearfully. (Good grief ... didn't he understand that I lived every day in fear because of his illness? ... but he meant a different kind of fear.) Looking back, I was a bit of a stranger to myself. I suffered from hives for many weeks following the attacks on New York and DC, and later awaiting Anthrax to descend upon my community. How glad I was to have that fear alleviated by my amazing husband who had lived through war in Lebanon. Why wasn't he afraid? (Because Love Wins, right?) He refused to discard his cell phone, too. Invaders ... terror, viruses, bugs ... cancer.

So then what do we do to address cancer? We treat it with poison. According to Wikipedia, "The most common chemotherapy agents act by killing cells that divide rapidly, one of the main properties of most cancer cells. This means that chemotherapy also harms cells that divide rapidly under normal circumstances: cells in the bone marrow, digestive tract, and hair follicles. This results in the most common side-effects of chemotherapy: myelosuppression (decreased production of blood cells, hence also immunosuppression), mucositis (inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract), and alopecia (hair loss)." David took a host of a whole lot of other medications, too, some of which really caused some trouble -- like bone loss and chronic rashes, just to name a couple. I still have a bagful of old pills that I have yet to dispose of -- probably thousands of dollars' worth. I already gave a couple grand's worth of chemo pills to the University and over $500 of blood thinner syringes to a medical mission. Chemotherapy and all its grand side effects didn't kill David -- but they might have. He surely suffered from it. And he feared it.

I think that cancer, heart disease and diabetes are greater terror threats to us than anything else. They have a hugely negative impact on the American family -- on our day to day lives -- from pain and suffering, financial devastation and the undefinable grief from loss of loved ones. I certainly don't mean to diminish the horror of lives lost in terrorist attacks or wars -- but cancer kills over 1,500 Americans every day; Diabetes is attributed to about 75,000 U.S. deaths per year and nearly 1,000,000 are caused by heart disease. These numbers are staggering. What is the answer? I am not making a political statement -- I haven't watched the debates -- I am an Independent and have no party loyalties -- but I really think we ought to spend a hell of a lot more time, energy and money on figuring out how to be better stewards of our planet and of ourselves -- to stop poisoning our earth, water and each other. A whole lot of healing has to happen if we're going to continue as a people. Who or what are the real invaders?

College Boys and Pennsylvania Autumns

Today I drove nearly 350 miles up through central Virginia -- across the Blue Ridge Mountains -- into West Virginia and through some of the the Allegheny Mountains to visit my son. We had heavy rains last night, so my 7:00 am departure got pushed to 8:00 and even then there was a good bit of fog. Once it began to burn off, I was a spectator of a wondrous picture show. Our leaves down in Virginia tend to lean toward the yellows -- but today, against an aqua-blue sky and through a good pair of sunglasses, the neon oranges and reds were really showing off. The further north I drove, the more spectacular the hues. Even the roads felt smoother as I skimmed northward, awestruck. I hurried to my goal -- the kid I dropped off nearly two months ago who is happy and thriving.

My journey this time was slightly different than trips to visit or collect my daughter. She tends to incessantly text, asking how much longer I'll be ... that she's impatiently awaiting my arrival. (This makes me feel loved.) No such texts came in from my son today. He's way more chill AND he knew when I would be arriving. I have no doubt that his anticipation was as real as my daughter's is. Mr. Cool gave me a mediocre hug in front of his roomie. I asked for a better one and got it. Then we went up to his dorm room with no real agenda other than to reconnect and be introduced to his new life. Very cool.

After almost 30 years, it still feels like I'm misbehaving if I walk into a boys' dorm room. To this day, my Alma Mater rarely permits the opposite sex to enter an opposite sex's room -- even moms and dads -- unless it's a Saturday or Sunday within specific hours. Today a kid (young man, actually) walked past the open dorm room door in a towel. He knew I was there because we'd already been introduced! but I'm just a mom. It was actually sort of sweet. Shortly thereafter, I hauled that same boy, my own boy and his roommate to Walmart for Nerf supplies for an upcoming Zombie War. Boys are really weird. I love them.

And, in case you're wondering, Zombie parties trump Mom. Yep. Girls want to spend every moment with you -- boys love you, go shopping for cool toys, have dinner -- but then it's play time. See you tomorrow. Don't get me wrong ... I don't mind. I just find the contrast very interesting. We have all of tomorrow slated for togetherness, but plans are plans. I was not asked to do any laundry or clean his room, which actually wasn't too gross aside from the fact that he hasn't washed his towel even once. Boys.

It's brisk tonight. A cold front is moving in with rain and it brings back all sorts of associations from my years here in northwestern Pennsylvania. During my senior year, it rained each and every day in November. Seriously. And still I love cold, rainy days. Virginia doesn't really have rainy days like Pennsylvania. I miss them! I fell in love in the cold -- coat-wearing, puddling-jumping, heart-skipping cold. But I think I only entered David's dorm room two times -- legally --and I still felt like a wayward bimbo. I do confess, however, that he snuck into my dorm room at least once -- the night before my graduation. If we had been caught, I probably would not have received my diploma. Boy trumped rules in that case! (Remember the Prude test, children ...) We had no banned substances, though, so maybe they would have let us off "easy." Yeh ... no. You see, in order to have "inter-vis," (intervisitation -- I'm embarrassed to explain) it had to be a Friday evening, a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday afternoon. Someone from your floor had to volunteer to be there for the duration of intervisitation hours with their door wide open so they could witness, report, and put an end to any unseemly hanky-panky. THEN, in order to actually have a guest or guests of the opposite sex, you had to sign them in (a log of indiscretions) AND keep your door open at least 6" and each person in the room had to maintain at least one foot on the floor at all times. I'M SERIOUS. And, no, this was not the 1950's. I'm all for single-sex dorms and appreciate the freedom that they offer, but my little college took it a little too far -- and still does to this day. Tonight, my son had two sweet girls waiting outside his dorm room to go over to the party -- harmlessly, innocently right there in their doorway. In front of a mom. I think they learn more about appropriate behavior with a little latitude to exercise it. Well, at least I hope they do.

David lived off-campus his senior year. The college permitted it because he was married. Guess what, Dean -- we're sleeping together now! Sorry ... but it really is funny. They worked so hard to keep boys and girls apart but failed to realize that the chapel was an excellent rendezvous point for some of the less holier-than-thou chapel aides. No kidding. As a young, oblivious freshman, I was shocked to hear of such behavior. I still am! Nonetheless, the institution of marriage did and still does mean something! Monogamy -- the soul-deepness of sex. I wish our youth of today believed in it a bit more than I fear they do.

In the backyard of our first home there stood a grand Maple tree. Each October it would transform from a lush, green shade tree to a blinding, glowing orange ball of fire -- with quivering red-tipped leaves. I can't do this tree justice with words. It was just the most beautiful thing in the world -- for those few, select days each fall. Who can believe that this kind of beauty randomly occurs because some single-celled lifeform divided into two? Only a creative Creator could even begin to imagine -- and then bring forth -- such brilliance. Twenty-four years after moving from that house, no tree has ever rivaled that old Maple. I should drive over to see it tomorrow. Like the sunset, the Autumn ... drawing near to death. Those leaves are dying. Greenness signifies life; orange signifies transition to death. David died in the Autumn ... after a darn beautiful display of color over his last month. He was a brilliant Creation, too ...

... as is my son -- complete with nerf battles, zombie parties and chums he's proud to introduce to me. My heart has some empty rooms in it today. My daughter's place is here, too, yet she's half a world away, casting her shining light on a bunch of other blessed people. And David should be here for Family Weekend. Actually, he kind of is ... maybe we'll visit the cemetary tomorrow, too -- it's within walking distance. We won't have to sneak-in after-hours to visit him, either.

Sunsets

We have the best view for sunsets at our house. We have a 40 foot deck across the back of our home, facing west. Though hot in the summer, it simply offers a wonderful panoramic view of our setting sun -- and glimpses of the Blue Ridge in the winter when the leaves have fallen from the trees that obscure our view the rest of the year. I can see the sunset from my kitchen sink and sometimes I'm just mesmerized by the beauty. David journaled our sunsets photographically. I'm not sure if he had any plans for all of those pictures, but he had hundreds of them -- perhaps a thousand.

I can't remember the details of the original request ... but shortly after David died, our loving neighbors got together to plan a sign for our street to honor him. A mosaic artist was commissioned to design the sign. The part I can't remember is whether they had already decided to portray a sunset or whether that was my suggestion based on David's love of sunsets. Whichever the answer, I provided about 20 images of David's most brilliant sunset photographs. We decided to stick with the deep pink and gold images. The sign should finally be installed within the next few weeks. I bet it's going to be beautiful.

Everyone loves sunsets. Just because David loved them and photographed them doesn't make him all that special. But he's dead, so that makes a difference. If you haven't lost anyone and gone through that whole "divination" thing, you don't know what I mean. When someone dies, people tend to remember them as much more wonderful than they actually were. Now some people are actually wonderful, of course -- like my mother, my husband, my father, my brother-in-law, grandparents (yeh, me, too) -- but the negative things get pushed to the background. No bad stuff is "openly" remembered. Divination. Having gone through bereavement programs, this is a no-no. We are supposed to remember ALL those things about our loved one -- good AND bad. Ok. Yes. But you know what? That really doesn't make any difference anymore. Sure, he was a messy coffee brewer. He spread his stuff out all over the dining room -- the first thing people saw when they entered our home was his unpacked suitcase or his stacks of stuff on our dining room table. He didn't help with dinner or the dishes ... Right now, none of that matters. Right NOW I'm remembering his passion for sunsets.

So ... when I was asked to provide an image of a sunset for the sign, I sort of panicked. David and I had separate computers. Sure, he sometimes emailed me sunset pictures, but I knew that he had a whole archive of them. I hadn't powered-up his notebook since before he died. I had no idea where he had saved those photos -- an external hard drive? a CD? or would it be a simple find? I also had to figure out how to maneuver through a different operating system and how to utilize his email without downloading 100's of emails that had accumulated since his death. I am somewhat resourceful ... I was able to locate his folder of sunset photos and used webmail to easily transmit them to myself. Score! I quickly shut-down his notebook and put it away. Too emotional for one day, really. I had chosen my favorites and transmitted them to the appropriate neighbors for a vote. This was a good day's effort for me back then! Time for a rest ...

Isn't a sunset a metaphor for the end of a life? I'm trying to grasp the common understanding of the "sunset" of someone's life. I think it's typically referring to old-age. That is something that David will never experience. He did write some about sunsets ... beautiful stuff ... in older songs.  In a song called Miracle Change, he wrote about what "people" say can't happen -- that we can change. He believed people COULD change. (I believe people can change, too.)

     Tonight, I’ll sit outside and watch the sunset
     As it slowly melts the corners of my soul
     Put a candle in the window, say a prayer for those I don’t know
     And ask the God of Peace to make us whole

These were songs written in the early days of his diagnosis ... he was very reflective. In Harvest Moon, he wrote:

     Today I noticed autumn had arrived
     a sunset of colors in the trees
     harvest moon over my shoulder
     just a hint of winter in the breeze

These are very lovely, melodic songs ... the kind of songs that made me fall in love with David. He sings with a sweet melancholy that draws you in. You probably have to hear them to understand. These sunsets ... and the sunsets that are happening right outside of my kitchen window ... make me miss my husband. I miss his voice. I miss his spirit. I miss his touch. I married him so that I would not be alone -- would not be cold ... and untouched. Sorry, but it's true. So sunsets make me kinda' blue.

But David was not a glass half empty kind of man. He was an optimist. He also wrote about sunRISES.

from Another Brand New Day,

     No one thought the sun would ever shine
     No one thought the breeze would ever blow
     That's why I take it as it comes
     Sunrise could change your life, you never know

 On "Day 3" following his recurrence, he wrote,

     So on this day and on as many as should come
     Always remember where you’re from
     Celebrate the sunrise and never let it go
     If you love someone, make sure you let them know.

... and this was from a very dark place.  He could kind of shame you with this stuff ... being so hopeful from the depths of his own despair.  I'm rarely up to see the sunrise, though. I'm a sunset person.

I can't help it. When I see a beautiful, notable sunset, I turn, involuntarily, to tell David to look! See the splendor! But he's no longer there. My kitchen is empty. Will I ever see a sunset without thinking of him? I wonder. And soon, every time I turn onto my street, I will see a breathtaking mosaic portraying plain old magnificence. The perpetual beauty of our world that keeps on repeating itself no matter what! A sign of hope -- of promise -- that life goes one and goes on with goodness and glory even in the midst of our sorrow -- of overcast, foggy, remorse-filled days. Sort of like that good old rainbow from days of 'yore. Hmmm.

The Sunrise
It was a cotton candy sunrise like I’d never seen before
Clouds of pink and blue were knocking at my door
So I went outside and said my good morning to the skies
The pink turned into orange right before my eyes
Then the sky light exploded like a firework display
I waited for the angels to announce the coming day
Just then the sun broke through like a prisoner from its cage
It turned into a spotlight as God took center stage
Then all the world fell silent ‘neath the technicolor sky
And I swear I saw a gleam in my Creator’s eye
He was smiling like he had something he could not wait to say
Then he said welcome to this brand new day ...

Oh, hell ... just listen to it.  It's captivating: 
http://www.davidmbailey.com/audio/DAVID_M_BAILEY-The_Sunrise.m3u

Vision

I have really bad eyesight. I had to get glasses in the 2nd grade. Finally getting contacts in high school was a miracle! Doing away with the cumbersome, ugly glasses and just presenting my own face was liberating. However, I still have to deal with the poor eyesight. My vision is so poor that I don't even qualify for Lasik surgery, though I've heard lately that it's not the panacea it was thought to be ... It hasn't been easy ... living with blurred vision.

Lack of vision can cause all sorts of problems. Just a few weeks ago, I felt a tickle on my leg in the shower. I used a foot to "scratch" it. When I looked down, I saw a black blog moving toward me. Certainly whatever had been on my leg was lifeless, right? but it appeared to be, quite intentionally, coming back! I had to crouch down to get a closer look -- and confirmed that not only was it a large spider, but that it was still alive! I was totally creeped-out -- pried-up the drain cover and washed that ugly thing down. From above, it was just a black blob. Dang.

Sunday morning's Scripture lesson in church was from the Gospel of Mark, chapter 10 where a blind man named Bartimaeus asked Jesus to have mercy on him. Jesus asked him what he wanted and he said that he simply wanted to see. Jesus healed him, saying that his own faith had healed him. The thing is, Bartimaeus then chose to follow Jesus. His vision had been restored AND he saw something else -- the divinity of Jesus. A different future -- heck, a different present!

One defintion of vision is, "An experience in which a personage, thing, or event appears vividly or credibly to the mind, although not actually present, often under the influence of a divine." I think this can also include forward thinking -- something that may not be readily evident to just anyone. Someone told me once that I had "vision" that they simply did not have in a very difficult situation with tough choices to be made. They would have made a different decision than I, but it might have been the wrong one. This was, perhaps, one of the most humble confessions anyone has ever made to me.

We were quite a visually handicapped couple, David and I. I couldn't function without corrective lenses and he lost half of his field vision to scar tissue in his brain. Both of us had to depend on other senses to fill in those gaps from time to time. For me, generally, it was at night -- when I got up in the dark to make my way to the bathroom or to a child calling to me or to the kitchen for a glass of water -- finding my way through the familiarity of our home and touch. For him, the handicap was constant -- uncorrectable with glasses -- where he hoped that hearing or simple knowledge of a situation would complete his sight. He didn't do very well with that. Try to imagine, if you can, not being able to see to the side without shifting your eyes. That was what happened to David following nuclear medicine. It took us a while to figure it out, but when we did, it both explained a lot and was crushing.

Perpipheral vision is something that most of us take for granted. Even the general meaning of the word peripheral minimizes its impact: concerned with relatively minor, irrelevant, or superficial aspects. I guarantee that where our vision is concerned, peripheral is far from irrelevant. Our peripheral vision is what permits us to notice a deer getting ready to jump out in front of our vehicle -- or a child or a dog. It is what helps us navigate through a crowd without stepping on the feet of others or plowing them over. It's what helps us see the person just to our side reaching out to shake our hand. David had lost all of this ability on his left side. Driving was a challenge -- and risky. (Angels working overtime here.) He was commonly berated in airports or school hallways for bumping into people -- and sometimes accused as being rude for seemingly rejecting outstretched hands in greeting. Of course he had no control over these things and, at times, agonized over them -- but generally, adapted and made adjustments to overcome these limitations.

This was the same man who had better than 20/20 vision. One day early in our marriage , we travelled to New York to ski -- and found ourselves in a terrible white-out blizzard on our way home. David fearlessly and accutely saw his way through the snow to get us home safely. I had such faith in his "vision" that I slept while he tackled the weather and stayed on our path. I had the same faith and comfort in his "vision" when he assured me that we could, indeed, buy our first home -- and we did. I shared his insight when he believed he could write songs that people would want to hear -- and take them directly to those people -- and make a living doing it. We had asked Jesus to have mercy on us and to give us sight -- and He did -- and we followed Him. Vision.

David was big on dreams. Though I think he was somewhat disappointed that my big dream was simply to grow old with him, he never forgot it. He was hoping for something more exciting, I think, like writing a book or being a doctor or something. (He wrote a song or two about that, too.) At that time, my dream was to be a mother -- a family. Quite honestly, looking back, anything bigger may have gotten in the way of what God wanted David to do. I shared God's vision -- and I supported David's vocation. I believed in what he was doing -- that it was a true calling. Again, from Mark 10: 29 “Truly I tell you,” Jesus replied, “no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel 30 will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age: homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields—along with persecutions—and in the age to come eternal life. 31 But many who are first will be last, and the last first.” Ouch. See? And, yes ... I really do believe this stuff.

Perception is a huge part of how we see situations. How we see each other. How we see our world -- our environment. Vision.

I deeply care about how my children view me. My daughter recently wrote to me that I was the most genuine person she knows. Wow. She also wrote that she loves this blog because it's about our life -- "... both the light and dark parts of our family's life." She said that she's learning so much about MY family as I was growing up -- and about how I see the world and the people around me. She also admitted that so much has our family been defined by David, that hearing it from my point of view makes him another character in our story rather than the protagonist with us as the back-up crew. She's pretty perceptive. My son took it a step further by pointing out that they were reading these words as if I was another person -- not just Mom. They are able to have a glimpse into my mind and heart -- and my life -- from a unique, non-parental angle. And then they view me differently. That's cool.

How do others see me? Well, I've written about the formidable stuff. I had no idea. I'm just me or, as my son so eloquently identifies me, "Good Old Leslie." I've been repeatedly surprised at the positive feedback I've received regarding my writing -- before I began blogging and since. Seriously, I have never thought of myself as a writer -- but others see me as such. It's quite a surprise. I hope others see me as caring, faithful and friendly -- thoughtful, perhaps -- and at least a little smart? And then I ponder what I think of myself!

I see myself as being resilient and useful. I do see myself as nurturing and as a good friend. I believe that I am mindful and responsible -- but also weary (so then a little lazy) and non-productive sometimes. I look over my shoulder and see someone who was happier -- more cheerful -- content and industrious! Not sedentary and slow-moving.

And right now -- in this moment -- I'm trying to peer into my future. What can I see? What is the vision of my life yet to be lived? I'm just not sure! I guess for at least the near future, I see more of this writing stuff. Many have suggested that I could publish some of these words in a book of sorts. I wonder ... A good friend insists that I should go to Seminary, if for no other reason than to study Theology and Christology. (You know I would need a utility for that ...) I love that I still have mothering to do -- for what remains of my lifetime -- oh! and grandmothering, too!

So my vision of my own life, looking forward, remains a bit blurry -- not a black blob anymore -- but certainly not quite yet in focus. Maybe I need new glasses. Ah, to have the vision of Bartimaeus!

Halos

I've been thinking a lot about angels lately. I'm not quite sure why. I think it's because of some truly caring acts to which I have been witness -- or of which I have been the recipient -- over the last few weeks. I think people have a very broad idea of what angels are. From a relatively secular standpoint, we refer to those who are thoughtful and act on their mindfulness through random acts of kindness as "angels." From a Biblical standpoint, those fierce supernatural creatures are servants of God and celestial beings who act as intermediaries between Heaven and Earth. The word "angel" in Hebrew and Greek in ancient times meant "messenger," and depending on the context may refer either to a human messenger or a supernatural messenger. I think that these two concepts of what it means to be an angel are actually quite synonymous.

Sometimes I just feel called to do something kind. When I get that nagging feeling, I try not to ignore it, but to act on it. Does that make me a human messenger and servant of God? I sure hope so! I have certainly been on the receiving end of the works of angels -- both heavenly and earthly.

My husband was a true believer in angels. He collected angel "coins" and doled them out as he saw fit. When he died, some anonymous angel sent me a little net bag full of angel coins. I have no idea why. But the gift spoke to me personally. I had one in my wallet at that very moment -- a gift from my husband. He once gave me a bookmark with a poem about angels and attached to it was a penny with a cut-out of an angel in it. I carried that bookmark with attached angel penny around in my wallet for years -- then got smart and simply placed the penny in my change purse. About a year ago, I noticed that it was no longer there!! I guess I unknowingly spent it! At first, I was remorseful -- but then I knew that it was good. Someone else would receive that message -- that angel -- an intermediary between heaven and earth. I have doled-out 7 of the ten gifted angel coins myself ... three more! To whom will I give them?

On more than one occasion, people told David that they had either seen angels around him as he performed -- and I mean legions -- many angels -- or heard angels singing when he was singing. He had a really difficult time believing this. The Scriptures teach us that we must have faith WITHOUT seeing -- and I have been taught that that includes no visions of angels! The experiences that were shared with David by these blessed were many years apart. The first time was during a healing service way back in the late 90's. Many were invited to be anointed with oil and David, himself, was anointed. Yeh, we Presbyterians do that. The more recent occurence was just a few years ago at a Presbyterian gathering. He was performing in a large auditorium and two of his closest friends informed him after the concert that they had heard angels singing. One was Presbyterian pastor -- no snake handler! and one was a lifetime friend not known for silliness. They were sitting on opposite sides of the venue and had never met. He was quite affected by their claims. I was envious -- yes, jealous -- of those who have been so blessed to see or hear those. What did these visions and hearings mean? Why did I not warrant the experience? Was David truly a messenger of God? Many believe that he was.

In the brain tumor community, those who have died are collectively referred to as angels. More "modern" concepts of angels are that they are guiding influences or guardian spirits. It's a comforting idea -- but I think it's more of an honor bestowed upon those who have lost that fight. They deserve to be honored. Who doesn't want to be an angel somehow someway to someone?

A common torture that many brain tumor patients endure is the "halo." I have a few really horrifying memories from David's journey with brain cancer. The halo is one of them. Imagine, if you will, the need for complete immobility during brain surgery -- awake brain surgery. Also imagine the requirement for that same stillness during a brain MRI used for surgical mapping. How do you do this? Well, you screw a contraption into someone's head with a ring -- a halo -- out around the circumference of the head with which to stabilize the head during surgery and MRI -- it actually fits into a frame in the MRI machine. I'm not entirely certain what they attach it to in surgery, though I made it as far as pre-op once and was nearly invited into the OR by a disgusted surgeon. The residents who "attached" David's first halo should have been severely punished -- kicked out of the surgical program. And I was too freaking meek to express my complete and total dismay at their incompetence and cavalier mentality.

David's halo was necessary for a biopsy following his first stint with nuclear medicine -- to find out if what was showing up on the MRI was cancer or not cancer. We were in a regular old hospital room and David was fully clothed. The doctors came in -- all arrogant and neuro-surgeon-like (no wonder I love McDreamy). They stuck needles in David's forehead, injecting him with Lidocaine above each eye -- and then in mirror-positions at the back of his head. They didn't even let the Lidocaine take effect -- in fact, they didn't even let the swelling decrease. He had four golf-balls on his head and they started screwing real screws straight into his skull. I was powerless. He was in excruciating pain and all I could do was lock onto his tortured eyes -- with volumes of reciprocal tears running down my own face. Have you ever had to witness someone you love endure such suffering? It was awful. All they had to say to him was that it shouldn't have hurt. (I'm biting my tongue, but all I'm getting is a mouth full of blood -- nod to the Fruit Bats). They sent him to pre-op in jeans and a sweatshirt -- not a hospital gown -- with an enormous contraption attached to his head, so they had to CUT OFF his clothes. Our surgeon was fit to be tied ... and basically invited me into surgery. How far does the "do no harm" pledge extend? David was truly an angel that day. I think God would agree.

So ... God's messengers ... were at my house working on my over-grown yard when I was away last week. They left a calling-card -- mums on my porch -- a weeded flowerbed by my front walk -- and vast destruction of pigweed! What was their message from God? "Leslie, you are a beloved child of mine." Heartfelt thanks to those yard-work angels. Really. Coolers full of homemade cookies, homegrown herbs and fresh-cut flowers are packages left by an angel; her message is that she hasn't forgotten that I'm alone -- that I'm grieving. Unexpected cards in the mail -- text messages out of the blue -- chocolates on my desk -- the random six-pack. They are messages from God of love. Yay!

Angel coins given in change: Hebrews 13:2 Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. And hospitality to those you already know and love, too!!

I used to tell David that he had a legion of angels working overtime for him. He'd lived through a war, been captured and interrogated, experienced a deadly car accident, survived grade IV brain cancer, been hit by a car! had close-calls when driving when he should not have been, had seizures in foreign countries and been cared-for -- and he always made it home. Is it any wonder that I now require my own angels? I'm actually chuckling. Goodness gracious.


Not All Angels
David M. Bailey

Not all angels have wings
Not all angels dress in white
Not all angels can sing
Not all Angels shine bright

Some are rough around the edges
Some have dirt under their nails
Some wear boots, some wear suits
Some angels are even in jail

Not all angels have wings
Not all angels dress in white
Not all angels can sing
Not all Angels shine bright

Some drink coffee in the morning
Some drink beer in the afternoon
Some sleep in on the weekends
Some leave us far too soon.

Hardship ... both harmless and otherwise

When I was growing up, I didn't really consider my family to be outdoorsy. Probably because the closest thing we got to camping was buying camping gear. But we really were outdoorsy -- just not in a conventional manner.

I learned to ski when I was 5. I remember that day very clearly -- and with mixed feelings. We lived in Pennsylvania at the time, so we went to a ski area called "Blue Knob." I never gave the name any thought as a kid, but now I figure it must have been named along the same lines as the Blue Ridge Mountains, where I now live. Blue Knob was a little funny because the lodge was at the top! After your last run, you had to go back up the lift to go home -- not just pop out of your skis and go. I often wondered what would happen to all of us if the power went out -- if none of the lifts were running. Would a whole mountain of skiers have to climb their way up, carrying skis and trudging exhaustingly in ski boots? Anyway, I digress.

I was 5. I had this faux fur coat that I just loved -- my "wolf coat." I guess it resembled wolf fur. I can't remember if I first called it that or if my dad did -- but the name stuck. It had neato faux antler toggles over the zipper. It was way cool. Perhaps it was not the best ski coat for a beginner, however. My first day skiing was a grand exercise in frustration. My father was a great encourager, though, and he didn't let me sissy-out. I remember falling a lot. (I believe I resembled more of a snowball than a wolf most of the day.) But getting back up to the top of even that little bunny slope was and remains, to this day, the biggest physical challenge I've ever faced. I could NOT conquer the J-bar. It was my nemesis. I hated it. I remember my dad so patiently teaching me to side-step up the edge of the slope so that I could ski back down. Up and down we went. Snowplow, fall, snowplow, fall, snowplow, fall ... side-step side-step side-step. In actuality, learning the side-step was a good skill. I learned to use the edges of my skis to hold myself still. Years later I would chuckle as I watched beginners' skis slip out from under them because they had not mastered the side-step. But, again, I digress.

There was another lift either above or beside the J-bar called the Pomalift. I couldn't figure out how it worked. But I did notice all the new-fangled ski pants with the round disc designs on the backside. Analyzing the pomalift and its riders helped to pass the time when resting from my climb back up. However, by the end of my first day of skiing, I had been in tears of frustration off and on for hours. I didn't like to fail! Still, over and over, my dad made me get up and go back to the top. And you know what? The second time we went skiing, I didn't fall much at all AND I successfully rode that J-bar. One day, I mastered the Pomalift, too -- and was completely amazed when I figured out that those silver circles on everyone's butts weren't the logo for a popular brand of skiwear, but the thing that you stuck between your legs to haul you up the hill. Remember, I was 5. I skied my whole life because my parents skied. We were outdoorsy!

We also hiked a good bit in New Hampshire. We traipsed down a small mountain and across a broad meadow to swim in a shallow, rocky river. But we never camped. When I was in high school, we started a new outdoor activity -- canoeing. We did that for years! There were liveries all up and down the Clarion River in northwestern Pennsylvania and we would frequent the river -- choosing various distances depending on our time frame and the state of the river. If there had been little rain, certain sections were too shallow and you'd scrape the bottom then end up walking your canoe. Nobody wants to do that. My dad would fly-fish from the canoe some days. Those were the lazy, floating days, not the paddling days. I loved those hours on the river.

Then I became a camp counselor. Mandated outdoorsy-ness. I'm a little like my son in that I don't like taking showers where spiders reside, I don't like bugs and I like my privacy. You have to abandon all of that when you're the camp counselor. I managed to create my own little creature comforts in the three-sided cabins and hogans and somehow eluded the polar bear swims all but one week -- but when I got assigned to the Outpost and then the Canoe trip, all bets were off. No dining hall! We cooked everything over our own fires, ideally even it was raining. (That's a life skill I'm glad to have. The trick is to locate the Hemlocks.) But the fourth day of pouring down rain on a 100 mile canoe trip down the Allegheny River had me near the end of my rope. No running water, no bathroom, no dry clothes or dry sleeping bag -- heck, we didn't even have tents! I was completely miserable, but had to put on the hopeful, enthusiastic face of the mighty counselor. I didn't do it for a second year, but I always tell that story and that experience made me a better person. Basically, it was harmless hardship.

David was a good sport when we were newlyweds. We'd go home to my Dad's for Christmas and go skiing in 0 degree weather. He didn't really enjoy skiing, because he wasn't immediately good at it! (I get that.) But we did go several times and it was a joy to ski with my husband, but when we had kids -- and then he got sick -- it was off the table. He had lost 100% of his peripheral vision on his left side due to necrosis from nuclear medicine and skiing would have been impossible for him from a balance standpoint and deadly from a vision standpoint. I never skied again until just a few years ago.

We did, however, love to go hiking and did that our entire marriage. We even camped a couple times. Our kids started hiking as toddlers. Of course sometimes that meant a wee lad on Dad's shoulders, but we went. We hiked in the Poconos and in North Carolina -- on many trails that led to waterfalls, our favorite quest. He planned a wonderful outdoor adventure vacation one year -- to Maine. We went kayaking and white water rafting. We went on a two day sailing trip. The sailing was great, but the kayaking was not! Somehow along the way, David never learned how to navigate a canoe on the water. We were in one-man kayaks and he just zig-zagged up that stupid river. (Who wants to go upriver anyway?!) He didn't complain, though and I empathized with his frustration! He, too, was unused to such failure. He never got the hang of it. The kids paddled in circles around him. Kind of funny. I wish I had had a video camera.

We are blessed to live very close to the Shenandoah National Forest, where hiking trails of all difficulty levels and distances are available to us. The last time we hiked as a family was on our 22nd anniversary. It was hot that August day and, though we chose a relatively non-strenuous trail, it was really hard on David. He had been on chemotherapy for months. My heart broke for him because I could see that not only was he suffering physically, he was embarrassed. He hated how hard it was kicking his butt. Hubris wasn't part of this. He was apologetic about his slower pace, but he would not have us turning back on his account. He made it to the vista! He did not fail. His son was watching. This was the same man who had walked the entire city of Rome in a day, two weeks following a chemo treatment and just four months prior to this hike. To say he was a trooper was an understatement. I should have known that he would never just go to sleep and let the cancer take him quietly. That man fought to LIVE with every ounce of grit that he could muster -- every single day.

The harmless hardship of that 100 mile canoe trip and the repeated side-stepping up that mountain did accomplish something in me. Character-building is a hackneyed term. Let's see ... what's a good way to express the value of those challenges? Quite simply stated, some of my life experiences prepared me to withstand the trials that would be presented to me during my life with David. Brain cancer isn't for sissies -- for the survivor or for the caregivers. A close friend of mine told me that I was resilient from all the trauma that I have endured -- starting with the death of my mother when I was just 19, extending through a 14 year all-out battle with brain cancer with my husband. That resilience started way back on a ski slope in a wolf coat. Thank you, Dad.

Handyman

Or, to be more politically correct, I should say, "handyPERSON." But personally, I don't care and I call myself a handyman. And I am a pretty good handyman -- though when it comes to wiring and other electrical stuff, I prefer to defer ... and then confer.

Friday morning I came downstairs to an electrical smell in my kitchen. I sniffed around and had pretty much determined it was the refrigerator when a strange ticking -- then a whirring -- then nothingness confirmed it. I did a quick internet search and was relatively certain that it was a bad start relay switch for the compressor, but none of the information I read said anything about fire or the mandatory unplugging of the appliance. I decided to flip the circuit breaker when I left for work. I was "officially" still on vacation, but had worked the day before and needed to go in for at least a couple hours. The whole time I was there, I was anxious about the dumb refrigerator. I was not nervous about an electrical fire, but was hoping that my food wasn't thawing. I had just tossed two freezers' worth following the Derecho back in July!

This stupid Kenmore is only ten years old and I already put $300 into replacing the thermostat just this past March. Of course they encouraged me to purchase the extended warranty, but I declined. I was anticipating an "I told you so." When I got home from work, I contacted a Sears appliance guru via online chat. Sears couldn't send anyone for TWELVE days. How does that help me? I didn't suppose they had a loaner program. I asked the guy if it was safe to run the refrigerator. He replied with some idiotic query, for the second time, about scheduling a service call. Then I asked him if someone would have come right away if I had purchased an extended warranty. Silence. No little red words appeared. Schmuck.

So I got out the good old phone book. I turned to appliance repairs. A promising entry served my area and wasn't far from me. I called -- got an answering machine message stating that there was no way they were taking new customers. Appliance repairperson shortage! I called a third place. Bluto was on that answering machine. I gently hung-up. I called another place! A human being answered. Not only a living, breathing person, but a helpful man. They couldn't get out here for a few days, either. He gave me a lengthy explanation about the newer appliances requiring such specific knowledge and skill sets ... then asked me about my fridge -- confirmed that it was probably a relay switch -- and told me he had the part! That I could drive down there, pick it up (it's expensive, he said) and he'd talk me through replacing the faulty part.

Ok. I went. The part was actually a "combination" part -- made up of numerous bits and pieces that collectively should be a replacement for any number of side-by-side refrigerator models. He tried to show me how two little parts effectively equalled one larger part -- and that if I was lucky, I'd just be able to use the larger part. Uh-huh. My eyes must have kind of glazed over. Then I asked the big question: Where do I find this part? Seriously -- did he think I knew anything about this??

I got home and faced the behemoth. Without my really big and really strong son -- or my really big and really strong husband -- I wasn't sure I was going to be able to pull it out of its niche. I tried reaching around the side that I could and tried to pull it out with one arm. I tried grasping it down near the grill and pulling. No go. Then I did a really stupid thing and a really brilliant thing concomitantly. I opened the doors and pulled. Now my mother always told me to never hang on doors or do anything to put duress on hinges, but there I was, doing just that. Out she rolled. Further ... a little further ... and I could get behind it.

First things first -- the vacuum cleaner. There was only one picture and one postcard back there! I even got out the Murphy's and filled a bucket. The baseboards and the floor needed a good washing -- especially if I was going to be back there on my hands and knees. With the urging of a friend following my ordeal on facebook, I did get a little liquid courage. (Had to push the fridge back in a bit in order to get inside ;-) I gathered a few tools, a couple flashlights, and entered. All of these parts are at the base of the refrigerator behind a durable (not) cardboard cover. Why do they do that?! The screws weren't all the same, so I got a couple colored sharpies and marked the holes and the screws (Virgo). I got the cover off and had to do some more vacuuming. (Do people REALLY go through all of this once a month to lengthen the life of their new-fangled refrigerators?) I located the compressor -- determined its model (key) and found the faulty part. It was burned and melted. Scare me. None of the pictures on the internet showed THAT. The wires were melted into it. I removed one to see how it connected to the part, compared part numbers and then tried to figure out which configuration of components to use. The wiring was what got me. Those wires didn't appear to attach to any of the new parts. I was stymied. After about an hour and a half of youtube searching and coming up empty (not one of those videotaped handymen showed the wires or even mentioned them!) I tapped into my great wisdom. I called my neighbor.

David was no handyman. I think it was more that he didn't want to be than that he was unable, but that was enough. I think he put a tricycle together once. He did something with a lawnmower blade once -- successfully. He and my brother-in-law assembled a video storage cabinet together and the latches wouldn't meet. (My sister and I fixed it.) Once a friend and he replaced our kitchen faucet -- an all-day and three trips to the hardware store -- affair. He liked tools! But I've replaced a couple faucets, flappers, even a water valve for a toilet (never again, though). I was the handyman -- but a reluctant one. I was also the one who remembered oil changes, heat pump maintenance, etc. Yuck. That's husband stuff.

One horizontal day only a few months after he died, I watched a watermark on the ceiling above my bed slowly grow in circumference during a heavy rain. Wretched timing. We had talked about (I had talked about) the need to repair the roof for a few years. We live on a very windy hill and had been picking up blown shingles for quite a while. But then David had a recurrence and our days, months, years became focused on other things. Laying there that day, I was just crestfallen. I didn't even have the wear-with-all to be vertical, let alone face the logistics of roof repairs. The air conditioning broke last summer. The lawnmower died. We had water problems. This is the kind of stuff that can take me over the edge. I can't let that happen anymore. It's too stressful, so I've learned to stop, breathe and pray. After all, nothing of a household nature could be worse than what I've already endured. During these trying times, I need a handyman to fix what's broken -- including my own heart.

I never listened very closely to James Taylor's song when it was popular on the radio -- I just sort of sang along to the parts that were readily understandable. Later, as an adult, I was sort of shocked and amused at the arrogance of his lyrics! but now I could use that kind of handyman.

Hey girls, gather round
Listen to what I'm putting down
Hey baby, I'm your handy man

I'm not the kind to use a pencil or rule
I'm handy with love and I'm no fool
I fix broken hearts, I know that I truly can

If your broken heart should need repair
Then I'm the man to see
I whisper sweet things, you tell all your friends
They'll come runnin' to me

Here is the main thing that I want to say
I'm busy twenty-four hours a day
I fix broken hearts, I know that I truly can

James Taylor in a tool belt. Hmmmmm. If he wants to come and paint those spots on my walls from when we had the pipes replaced and stain the deck, come come come come come come come! Be my handman.

My neighbor, who was thankfully home when I called, was mighty impressed with my progress with the refrigerator. It really wasn't a straightforward repair. The two of us continued to compare part numbers and re-read the pitiful instructions. He more closely examined the wires and removed the melted gunk -- and figured it all out. It really was a victory. Score another one for me (with good help).

Mountaintops, Getting Lost ... and Found

People have been talking about mountains a lot the last few days. Yesterday in Sunday School someone referred to MLK's "Mountaintop" speech in which he assured his listeners that he had seen the Promised Land and was less concerned about reaching it than he was to do God's will -- for his eyes had seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord. Cool. Yesterday evening in my book group we talked about the spiritual discipline of wandering -- something that Barbara Brown Taylor refers to as "The Practice of Getting Lost." We also talked about the 40 years of desert wandering of the released captives -- with Moses -- who also saw a glimpse of, but never reached, the Promised Land. One must wonder what took them so long! How lost were they?

Then today my daughter started tagging photos of some mountaintops that we had reached together. She claimed that she was not really homesick; she does, however, want to be home. She has dragged me up a few big hills right here in Virginia -- and in North Carolina. A few years ago, it would have been nothing for me; last year it was painful. This girl is out of shape! But I made it up one of the toughest climbs in central Virginia -- Old Rag. That mountain is popular -- and crowded (reminiscent of Mt. Everest stories). We did experience bottlenecks! and certainly understood that the summit was only half-way. Our goal eluded us as we climbed higher and higher until, at last, we reached the mountaintop. The view of the Shenandoah Valley on the other side was breathtaking -- perhaps not unlike a land of milk and honey. We had already climbed well over 5,000 ft on Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina and stood atop Mt. Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Mississippi at 6,684 ft. Mountaintops.

Back in 2006 our family vacationed on Beech Mountain, NC. The elevation is pretty high up there, too. Our lodge was just about at the top, so there wasn't any "summit'ing" to be done, necessarily, but hiking abounded. We chose a trail and set-out. We happened upon an abandoned golf course project which felt sort of like a ghost town. It was April, so the weather was perfect. We began to wander and enjoy God's creation -- like the spiritual practice. And we did get lost on that mountain. It was fun for a while, but then the sun began to take its trip toward the west and dusk threatened to descend on us. David and I knew that it was going to get cold and that there were plenty of bears on the mountain, so we began to get concerned as we continued to search for signs of the trail. It wasn't as simple as "go down," because our lodge wasn't lower on the mountain -- and it surely would have been possible to find ourselves on the total opposite side of the mountain which had no roads, so no people -- only forest. Of course we did find our path -- working together, playing pioneering games, checking the sun's path and looking for landmarks that we had already observed. We have photos of us trailing behind each other, relieved to be wandering out of our wilderness.

David and I became quite lost on Snowbird Mountain in Utah. We were there for a concert and to celebrate our anniversary. There was an event called "Survivors at the Summit," so we took the tramway up from 8,000 feet or so to over 11,000 ft. Many people had chosen to walk up, but we decided that we would walk down. That wasn't a great choice on a couple levels. One way down was a road. How boring! We weren't going to take the road. We were rugged! We soon discovered that we might not really be enjoying this climb downward. An enormous rock field lay between us and smoother terrain. It was incredibly difficult to navigate those large rocks at such a steep decline -- hard on the knees. You had to watch every single step to be certain that you didn't twist an ankle or even break a leg. Again, we started to play a game -- pretending we were descending the Khumbu Icefall on Mt. Everest. We may have already been lost at that point. At least we knew that down was the right direction and that we were on the correct side of the mountain. It was a really, really long and challenging hike down that mountain, albeit humorously dotted with ski lifts here and there. We finally made it down, but our descent was too slow, ultimately, for David, and our ascent had been too fast. He began to develop pretty serious altitude sickness and we almost didn't make it home.

This altitude sickness was very disappointing to David. He had long been a fan of climbing stories. He had read every single biographical piece of the famous climbs of Mt. Everest and the Seven Summits (the highest peaks on each of the continents). He was even invited to climb Kilimanjaro as part of a cancer survivors' climb. Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa, is over 19,000 ft. He had struggled at 11,000 ft, so this was probably an unlikely venture for him, though he still loved to ponder the possibility -- tossing around various acclimatizing methods that might make it possible. I was secretly relieved that he wouldn't be going. I tend to get a bit fearful about the dangers of mountaintops -- like getting lost at dusk, getting trapped in stone fields -- and the agonizing headache and nausea that accompanies altitude sickness.

I wonder why it's such a big deal to get to the top. Does it really so decisively denote achievement? Success? In David's case, survival? Maybe it's just for the vista -- the view of the Promised Land. You still have to turn around and come back down, though -- back down to your regular old life with the same challenges and joys and busy-ness and pleasures that you left behind when you embarked on your journey. Is it so that we continue to exercise our ability to reach a goal? Is it just for physical fitness or the companionship with each other and with nature? To experience true joy that causes us to "Sing to the Lord a new song, his praise from the end of the earth?" Do we climb to wander with the possibility of getting lost? Taylor suggests that the times in our lives that change us for the better are those "wilderness times." She's not necessarily talking about missing the trail blazes ... but, maybe, more about the Amazing Grace kind of lost.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind but now I see. Clearly, John Newton believed he had strayed off of his path and was wandering in the wrong direction. Sometimes we're just lost because of fear or of circumstances that send us into downward spirals. That's why I like the third verse: Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come; 'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far and Grace will lead me home. Without question, God's grace has brought me out of many wildernesses -- literal mountaintop wildernesses, as well as times of deep sorrow, heartbreak and hopelessness. Sadly, some people remain lost.

Lost River, Natural Bridge, VA

David wrote a song about being lost, of course. I love this gentle song with its twists and turns.

Lost River
Nobody knows where it begins
They cannot find where it ends
But if you're quiet you can hear it rolling by
People come from miles away to hear that water's cry
They call it the lost river as if it doesn't know where to go
Isn't that so typical, a perspective so predictable
We redefine our miracles when they don't fit what we know
Nobody knows where it begins
Though some have searched their whole life long
It's something you can hear, but you may never see
Not unlike the music in this song
They call it the lost river as if it doesn't know where it is
Isn't that so typical, our response to the invisible
The things we cannot find we say are lost
So we disregard the quest and pay the cost
But the river might suggest it is we who are lost
                                                                 ~ David M. Bailey

My daughter has a cool shirt that she got in the Shenandoah National Forest -- It reads: "The mountains are calling and I must go." It is a quote by John Muir, a naturalist and "Father of the National Parks." I think he understood this art of getting lost, getting found ... and all the possibilities along the way.